Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1

by Rachelle Ayala

  “I’ll get you the material on both Brigid the goddess and St. Brigid,” Maeve said, clipping her long blond hair into a bun. She, too, was wearing regular street clothes: ripped jeans, and a sweater with a calfskin jacket. “Some say that the relics of Saint Brigid were destroyed during the reign of Henry VIII. No one’s ever heard of a heart.”

  “Griffin probably made it up,” Clare conceded. “But whether he truly believes it or he’s just playing a game with me, I can write a screenplay around it and get him to fund my movie. After all, wouldn’t he want to see his story made into a movie?”

  “Would he be interested if he’s as weird as you say?” Sorcha pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose and blinked at Clare. “I think you need to get some sleep. You’re sounding as strange as him.”

  “He’ll want to see it in a movie or book,” Clare said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have talked so much after finding out I’m a writer. People want to see themselves. You know how they’re always stopping me on the street to tell me they have an awesome story that should be made into a movie.”

  “True, true,” Maeve said, wiggling her shoulders. “I’m the sex-starved Queen of the Fae. Write something for me.”

  Sorcha twirled around, swinging her messenger bag. “Right, and I’m a sorceress from the Irish springs. I have great magic stored in my bones.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m saving you two for another book series,” Clare said.

  Her two besties waved goodbye and sauntered out the door, both talking at the same time about their big break into the movies.

  As soon as their voices faded into the lift, Clare rushed back into her room and retrieved Griffin’s green notebook. She had a great idea for a new series based off Griffin’s story—the fight between the Morrigan and Brigid for a griffin’s heart.

  She opened the notebook and flipped to the last page she’d read. A postcard dropped out—an appointment reminder mailed to Griffin’s address up in Donegal.

  Now she had an address. Great. But what was this?

  Clare checked the date on her mobile phone. He had a doctor appointment today at the Poddle Neurological Institute.

  Curious.

  Not only was Griffin an imaginative storyteller, but he could possibly be crazy, too.

  She looked up the Poddle Neurological Institute. It was north of the River Liffey and a half-hour bus ride from their apartment.

  Clare stifled a yawn and brewed herself a large cup of coffee. She’d learned in her year in America to appreciate the caffeine kick. Jet-lagged or not, she was going to find out all she could about this lunatic would-be investor of hers.

  After drinking the coffee, showering, dressing in nondescript clothes, a plain blouse and a pleated skirt, and pulling her hair into a boring bun, Clare boarded a bus headed north toward the institute.

  She wasn’t sure what to think or feel.

  Griffin had a neurological disorder. Maybe he coped with it by making up stories, or his arrogance was a defense mechanism. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as she assumed, and he wasn’t mocking her or being rude.

  Curiosity might kill the kitty, but it never harmed a writer.

  After getting off the bus, Clare had to walk the last few blocks to the institute.

  “Are you here for an appointment?” the receptionist asked Clare when she skulked around the waiting room, trying to see if Griffin was sitting inside.

  “Actually, I’m waiting for my brother, Griffin Gallagher,” Clare improvised. “Brought him a notebook he left at my place.”

  “He’s late,” the receptionist said. “Hasn’t called to cancel, so you might want to wait or check with him.”

  “Sure, thanks.” Clare took a seat in the waiting room and pretended to text someone.

  Fifteen minutes went by, then half an hour, but Griffin didn’t come through the door. She was about to leave when the receptionist called out, “Could you ask your brother to reschedule?”

  “Sure. He must have forgotten,” Clare said. “Please convey my apologies to the doctor.”

  “It’s fine.” The woman nodded, smiling. “Our patients have a habit of forgetting, especially after a seizure.”

  Seizure? Clare’s ears pricked at the word. She wanted to pump the receptionist for more information, but of course, due to patient privacy, she would never get a definitive answer.

  “I should have checked with him before coming.” Clare waved the notebook. “Since I live in Dublin, it was easier for me to meet him here than to hire a car to take me all the way to Donegal.”

  “Aye, it is a long way to come, but we have the best specialists for his condition.” The receptionist flipped through Griffin’s file and made a note.

  “We’re very grateful,” Clare said. “Especially since it’s so rare.”

  “True. Most epilepsy patients don’t suffer the types of memory loss your brother has to deal with. I’m sure it’s very disconcerting for the family when he forgets who you are.”

  Clare tried to keep the shock off her face as she pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yes, it is hard on us. Very hard.”

  She imagined what life would be like for Griffin’s family, and whether he had a girlfriend. Could Brigid be a real person who was in love with him? Had she given him the amulet, hoping he would remember her after his seizures?

  What if the Heart of Brigid was a memory aid, and by stealing it, Clare had deprived him of any hope of recovery?

  Chapter 8

  Clare was so groggy, for a moment, she didn’t remember where she was.

  A door slammed, and she fell with a thud. Opening her eyes, she saw the leg of the sofa in front of her nose. Her body was wrapped in a tangle of crocheted yarn, and when she turned over, a pair of shearling boots were planted on the worn rug next to the crate that served as a coffee or tea table.

  “Hey, you get enough sleep?” Sorcha bent down and held up her hand. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Clare sat up and rubbed her eyes, blinking in the darkened room. “What time is it?”

  “I had to work late to get this thing analyzed.” Sorcha held the Heart of Brigid stone in her palm. “It’s a real diamond in the rough. Mohs hardness is a ten. Scratches corundum. Has a four-sided crystal. Specific gravity is 3.52 exactly in the diamond range. It has some impurities, hence the color, and there are occlusions embedded inside, which makes me think it’s natural and not lab grown. Over five-hundred carats. Do you have any idea how much this is worth?”

  Clare’s jaw slackened, and she felt her eyeballs explode. Her pulse swished behind her ears, and jagged fear tore through her heart.

  “No,” she managed to whisper. “What do we do?”

  “Not what do we do, but what are you going to do?” Sorcha dropped the rough diamond onto Clare’s lap. “You’re the one who stole it.”

  “Has anyone reported it missing?” Clare didn’t dare touch the gemstone which was as large as an egg.

  “Not that I know of,” Sorcha said. “But the very existence of this kind of treasure would be kept secret. Only a select few would know about it.”

  “Why did Griffin show it to me?” Clare stared at the dull purple stone. It had an oily sheen and didn’t remind her of any diamond she’d ever seen.

  “Bragging, maybe. People always let the pussy out of the purse. They can’t help it. Maybe he stole it from someone else.” Sorcha’s dark eyebrows lowered. “What if he tempted you into taking it because someone was after him?”

  Clare clapped her hand over her mouth. “What if he was being followed, and now, they’re looking for me? I have to get it back to him.”

  The lock on the front door clicked, and both Sorcha and Clare jumped. Prickles of sweat erupted from every pore of her body, and her heart risked catapulting from her chest.

  “Howya, roomies.” Maeve sailed through the doorway and threw her scarf on the coatrack. “Why are you two sitting in the dark?”

  She flicked on the light, and her gaze caught on the diamon
d. “I’ve been busy in the heart of the library finding out everything about Brigid. This is gross, but her head is supposed to be in Portugal, thanks to three stout Irish knights. A small piece of her skull was given back to Ireland in the 1920s.”

  “We’re not interested in her skull,” Sorcha said. “What else did you find?”

  “Three of the knights are buried with her head after they guarded it all their lives, but in one of the old books, I saw a mention of a fourth.” Maeve picked the diamond off of Clare’s lap and held it to the light.

  “A fourth knight?” Clare held her hand to her tightened throat. “What happened to him?”

  “He was turned into a beast because he wouldn’t give up his treasure,” Maeve said. Her eyes glittered and narrowed.

  “What was the treasure?” Sorcha asked.

  “The three knights didn’t know. They didn’t say how they got her head or where the rest of her skeleton was laid to rest. Everything got murky around the twelfth century when the Normans invaded.” Maeve rubbed the rough diamond and breathed on it. “I wonder if this was the treasure the fourth knight kept.”

  “What was his name? Did you find anything else?” Clare couldn’t take her gaze off the mesmerizing diamond.

  “He was referred to as the Garda, or Guardian,” Maeve licked her lips. “The beast he was turned into was half eagle and half lion—a griffin.”

  “Griffin Gallagher is a guardian?” Clare gaped at her friends. “What if he comes after me? What should I do?”

  She’d barely finished emoting when several loud knocks sounded at the door.

  Clare grabbed the diamond and stuffed it down the waistband of her skirt and into her panties. Maeve gave a little scream, fluttered her hands, and ran to her room while Sorcha tiptoed to the door and looked through the peephole.

  “Open up, Garda!” a rough voice shouted.

  Sorcha made a lip-zipping motion. Not that Clare was going to say a word. Instead, she sat over the egg-shaped diamond like a mother hen guarding a cuckoo’s egg.

  “Clare Hart. We know you’re in there,” the officer said. “You can either open the door and answer our questions, or we’ll come back with a warrant.”

  The raps on the door grew more urgent.

  “How do we know you are Garda?” Sorcha asked. “We can’t be too careful.”

  “Does this badge mean anything?” the man yelled back. “Open up, or Clare is coming down to the station with us.”

  “Let them in,” Clare said. “I have nothing to hide.”

  The two officers entered, showing their badges. The most striking thing about them were their eyes, so blue they blazed like gas jets.

  “We won’t stay long,” the older one spoke through his walrus-style mustache. “We have a few questions, and we’ll get out of your way.”

  The younger one sneered at the piles of fabrics, twigs, beads, and raw material used to make fairy paraphernalia. “This looks like a perfect hiding place for stolen goods.”

  “This happens to be the headquarters for Wands, Wings, and Wardrobes, your Otherworldly online store.” Clare rolled her eyes, despite her thudding heart. “Didn’t know the brave men of the Garda were into fairy garb. Could I interest you in a hemlock wand? Or a stardust crown?”

  “What are you looking for?” Sorcha asked, sitting down on the couch next to Clare.

  “We’re not at the liberty to divulge that,” the older man said. “All we want to know is if you’ve seen this man.”

  He handed Clare a grainy photograph of Griffin. It looked like it was taken from a security camera.

  Clare had no reason to lie, especially since the Garda probably already knew the answer.

  “I sat next to him on the airplane,” she said. “Why? What did he do?”

  The younger officer scribbled in his notepad. “Did he speak to you?”

  “A little,” Clare said. “But I was sick most of the flight. Had to use the airsickness bag.”

  “The flight attendant said he bought you a drink.” The older one took off his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed the lenses with his grimy fingers. “Sounds like he wanted to get acquainted with you.”

  Clare rolled her eyes and smiled. “I get a lot of male attention, but he pretty much slept through the flight.”

  “Did he show you anything strange?” The younger officer fixed Clare with an electric blue-eyed glare.

  “What kind of question is that?” Clare snickered. “And no, he didn’t flash me or anything. He was kind of standoffish.”

  “Did you notice anything else?” The older man fiddled with his pen. “Did he seem nervous or evasive?”

  Clare pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. “He plugged his ears with earbuds most of the time.”

  The younger officer held out a card. “If you think of anything, give us a call.”

  “This man isn’t in some kind of trouble, is he?” Clare asked. “I’m not in any danger, am I?”

  The two officers glanced at each other for a moment, and then the older one patted Clare’s shoulder. “We got an anonymous tip that he might have passed something to you, but it looks like that was a bunch of hooey. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “That is, if you truly don’t have the contraband.” The younger officer lifted an eyebrow and scanned the mess in the sitting room. “It seems your seatmate stiffed some very powerful people, and you’d better hope they don’t think you’re in possession of the item in question.”

  “May I ask what it is you’re looking for?” Clare asked in as calm a tone as she could muster.

  “Fairy stuff,” the younger officer said with a smirk. “Got an anonymous tip saying you ladies were seen with something suspicious.”

  “We sell all of this stuff over the internet,” Sorcha said. “Why would any of this be suspicious?”

  “Right,” Clare huffed. “Have a look around. We have amulets and lucky charms. Magic wands, capes, fairy wings, and healing crystals.”

  She stood to pull out a box when the gem dropped and sagged her panties downward. What if it plopped out like a large turd ball?

  “Healing crystals?” the older officer said. “Can we take a look at your collection?”

  “Be my guest,” Sorcha said. “Everything’s for sale. If you see anything you like, let us know.”

  The two officers looked through Sorcha’s crystal collection and asked Clare to show her wangs, er wands.

  Clare squeezed her thighs and walked tightly to her wand cabinet, hoping her knickers would knot around the sacred Heart of Brigid.

  “What’s up with you?” The younger man leered at her. “Got a stick up your arse?”

  “Lost my vibrator wand, but if you’re looking for a magical butt plug, I’m sure I can carve you a shillelagh of shittim wood.” Clare took the opportunity to sit down after finding a crooked schlong-sized stick.

  The two Garda guffawed, each teasing the other about ordering the jumbo-sized butt plug, and Clare was saved from getting off her diamond in the rough.

  Fortunately, Maeve peeked from the room and noticed the younger Garda was quite a dish. She distracted them with a pot of hot tea in the kitchen, and Sorcha entertained them with stories of historical Irish murders, including a man who believed his wife was a changeling and got the jury to believe him too.

  Clare remained rooted to the sofa and twisted her hands around the shittim wood stake.

  What had Griffin gotten himself into? Or was this another part of his story world? Maybe he sent these two goons to flush her out of hiding. Or worse, they were bad guys he’d gotten mixed up with.

  One thing she knew, this was one hot potato she didn’t want to carry around. If the anonymous tipster was watching her, he would follow her straight to Griffin’s place. Should she drop the precious Heart in the mail and hope no one checked it? Or would they have cameras at the post office and arrest her on the spot?

  Nope, she’d have to think of a more creative way to return the Brigid’s Blessed H
eart. But first, she had to hide it in a safer place than up her arse.

  “I have to leave right now,” Clare said to her roomies as soon as the Garda were gone.

  “They might be watching you.” Maeve fluttered at the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the blue-eyed wonder boy. “You’ll be followed.”

  “She can’t stay here,” Sorcha said. “The fact that the Garda came here means they suspect she’s hiding the diamond.”

  “Exactly.” Clare unzipped her luggage and stuffed everything she’d unpacked back. “Next time, they’ll come with a warrant.”

  “Where will you go?” Maeve asked. “Can I come with you? I wouldn’t mind having that hunky shifty-eyed one shifting his eyes and hands all over me.”

  “Oh, stop it, Maeve,” Sorcha said. “Can’t you see Clare’s having a moment of panic? She needs me to right the ship with my steady hand.”

  “No, I don’t,” Clare said. “You two have to act normal. If all of us leave, then the people watching will think we have something to hide.”

  “You can’t leave with the luggage,” Sorcha said. “You have to appear as if you’re going out to pick up a bag of groceries.”

  Clare looked at all of her fairy costumes. “You’re right. I’ll have to go incognito. No more drawing attention.”

  She went through Sorcha and Maeve’s wardrobe and picked out only the white clothes. White jeans, white blouses, white dresses, and white shoes.

  “What’s with all of the white?” Maeve asked. “You always liked to be colorful.”

  “The last time anyone saw me with Griffin, I was wearing black and green,” Clare said. “I never wear white, so if anyone’s watching, they may not associate me with the woman with the ruffled black feathers.”

  “Very clever. Shall we get you a white burka the next time I order frankincense and myrrh?” Sorcha quipped. “Where will you go?”

  Clare wrapped a white scarf around her auburn hair. “I can’t tell you, and I can’t let you two know what I do with the stone. It’s for your protection.”

  “We can’t just let you go by yourself,” Maeve said. “I bet you’re going to look for Griffin.”